Father's Day
by Susan M. M
Summary: John Peter McAllister and Max Keller attend a Highland Games. Three angels try to reunite him with his daughter Teri. Oh, and both McAllister and Teri have people trying to kill them. Just a normal weekend in June.   Reposted to correct typos
1. Madainn Mhath

_Standard fanfic disclaimer that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters, I'm just borrowing them for, um, typing practice. That's it, typing practice. I'll return them to their actual owners (relatively) undamaged. This is an amateur work of fiction; no profit beyond pleasure was derived from the writing._ _Originally published in Our Favorite Things #23  from Elan Press. A FanQ nominee for Best Crossover._

**Father's Day**

_Touched by an Angel/The Master_

Susan M. M.

_For Sheila Paulson, without whose encouragement this story would never have been completed._

San Miguel, California, June 1984

Thursday, June 14, 1984

"You ought to go," Monica urged her co-worker. The brunette carefully sanitized her tools as she talked. Borrowing a hairbrush from your sister is one thing, but going to a beauty parlor and finding out the brushes and combs haven't been cleaned between customers is quite another. "You've been working hard. You deserve a break."

"You've been working just as hard," countered Teri.

"Which is why I intend to go," Monica retorted, her Irish brogue just a little stronger than usual. "Music, dancing, shopping – it'll be fun."

Teri just shrugged. "Maybe."

"And there's an outdoor non-denominational service Sunday morning."

Teri didn't reply.

Monica let the subject drop and concentrated on her cleaning. She didn't know why her supervisor Tess had told her to try to get Teri to go to the San Miguel Highland Games, but Tess had gotten her orders from Him, and He always knew what He was doing. And whether she persuaded Teri or not, Monica had every intention of attending the Games. She had been working hard, both as a guardian angel and in her current cover as a beautician. A bit of holiday would be good for her.

Jocelyn, another employee at Esmeralda's Beauty Salon, stopped sweeping the bits of cut hair from the floor. "I thought you were Irish. Why would you want to go to a Scottish get-together?"

"I am Irish," Monica confirmed. At least, Ireland was where the Almighty had called her into being, and of all places on Earth, it was the one she loved best. "But here in America, Highland Games tend to be pan-Celtic festivals. There'll probably be as much Irish music to hear there as Scottish."

"Not to mention handsome men in kilts, and women hoping for a strong breeze," LaDaria, one of the other beauticians, added.

Monica tried not to blush. Never having been human herself, she sometimes found herself embarrassed by certain human instincts and drives.

"So why did you leave Ireland and come here?" Jocelyn continued. "I mean, San Miguel, of all places?"

Monica smiled and gave a half-shrug. "You go where the jobs are. There was work for me to do here," the angel said honestly.

"That art theater downtown is doing a marathon of '30s comedies this weekend. Might be nice to see them all the way through; I always fall asleep when I try to watch them on the late show." Teri hastily changed the subject. Jocelyn had a tendency not only to eavesdrop, but to gossip. The last thing Teri wanted her to do was to start asking why Teri was working as a beautician in San Miguel, CA. Especially since Teri Foster wasn't her real name.

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

Friday, June 15, 1984

"You want to take time off to do what?" John Peter McAllister asked his traveling companion. One white eyebrow rose in disbelief.

"Highland Games. What, with a name like McAllister you've never been to one before?" asked Max Keller. He was young enough to be McAllister's son, nearly young enough to be his grandson.

"There aren't many Highland Games in Japan," McAllister pointed out. He'd settled in Japan after WWII, and other than being recalled to active duty during the Korean War, he'd stayed in Japan since then. He'd only returned to the USA a few months ago, for the first time in decades.

"Look, old man, you need a break," Max told his mentor. "I need a break." The curly-haired young man pointed at the hamster, running in his wheel in his travel cage. "Henry needs a break. Besides, if there aren't many Highland Games in Japan, then it probably won't occur to Okasa to look for us there."

The balding man thought about that for a moment. There was a certain logic to Max's reasoning, but he hated to take time off from their search. A few months ago, he'd received a desperate letter from a young woman claiming to be the daughter of his girlfriend during the Korean War. A woman claiming to be his daughter. She'd pleaded for his help. Since he'd been contemplating a career change anyway, he'd left his home in Japan to answer her plea for help. Unfortunately, his former pupil, Okasa, had tried to kill him as he prepared to leave the country.

So now he traveled a country he no longer knew, seeking a daughter he'd never met, trying to avoid the deadly grasp of a man he'd once loved like a son. And Max, his new pupil, thought they should take time off from their quest to attend the San Miguel Highland Games. McAllister sighed.

There were days McAllister wondered why he had ever become a _ninja. _Mathematicians don't kill their professors to keep them from betraying arithmetical secrets, nor do plumbers take to violence to protect the mysteries of the pipes. But Okasa, his former pupil in the art of _ninjitsu, _feared that McAllister, the only occidental American to ever become a ninja master, would betray the secrets of the ancient Japanese assassin cult. John Peter McAllister had always been fascinated by the tales of the _ninja_, even when others claimed they were only legend. After WWII, he had stayed in Japan, trying to learn all he could about the _ninja_, learning bits and pieces of martial arts and acrobatics in an attempt to duplicate their abilities. After several years, a friend revealed that he was a _ninja_, that he and his family had been watching McAllister for quite some time, and permitted him to begin training in the art of _ninjitsu. _McAllister had only been interested in the abilities of the ninja: to move silently, invisibly, to fight like a panther, to sneak into any building like a ghost. Only recently had he learned that Okasa and some of the other younger _ninja_ had gone back to the ancient trade of assassinations for hire. That was when he had decided to retire. That was when Okasa had decided that he had to die.

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

Saturday, June 16, 1984

The angels materialized near the front entrance of the Highland Games, watching the people enter. All three were dressed in glowing white.

"Before we let people see us, we'd better blend in a little better," Tess suggested.

A second later, Andrew was in the kilt. The tartan was the Black Watch's regimental tartan; he'd known many members of the "Gallant Forty-Twa" over the years. His black T-shirt had a picture of the ancient church on Iona. Monica now wore blue jeans and a green T-shirt with a Celtic cross embroidered on it. Tess wore a straw hat, a T-shirt with the lyrics to 'Amazing Grace' printed on it, and a denim skirt. They waited, and a few minutes later Max and McAllister bought their tickets.

McAllister turned his head. He scanned the area, seeing nothing out of place. His body tensed automatically, every nerve, every muscle ready for combat. His gaze lingered where Tess, Andrew, and Monica stood invisible.

"Can he see us?" Monica whispered.

Andrew shook his head. "Not us. Me. A man who lives as close to death for as many years as he has can often sense the presence of an Angel of Death."

"Something the matter, oldtimer?" Max asked.

McAllister shook his head. "Just a feeling. What was it my grandmother used to say? Like a goose walked over my grave."

Max glanced at the program. "What do you want to do first? Go to the Glen of the Clans, or hit the vendors' area, or listen to the music, or watch the athletics, or what?"

One white eyebrow rose. "One thing at a time. Remember, I'm not as young as I used to be."

"Huh," Max scoffed. "You're in better shape than I am. Why don't we start at the Glen of the Clans? We can see if there are any other McAllisters here, and I can check in with my clan tent."

"I always thought Keller was a German name." At least, it had sounded German to McAllister.

Max shook his head. "I've got some German, on my mother's side, but Keller is a Scottish name. We're a sept of Clan Campbell." He consulted the map printed on the back of the program, and led his teacher to the row of clan tents.

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

"_Madainn mhath_," a man in a blue-green kilt greeted them. "Are you folks Campbells?"

"I am." Max bent over to sign the guest register laying on the table. "This is my friend's first Highland Games, and he wanted to know if his clan was here."

"Bruce Campbell," the clan tent volunteer stuck out a hand, and Max and McAllister both shook it. "Max Keller," he read from the register. "Definitely one of ours. And your name is?"

"McAllister. John Peter McAllister."

"Have you got a copy of _Black's?_" Max asked. "I thought we could look up McAllister there."

Bruce shook his head. "Don't need _Black's_." He gestured at a fat book, _Black's Surnames of Scotland_, that was being used as a paperweight. "McAlister is a sept of Clan Donald. Senior cadet branch, if I remember correctly. Louise, do the McAlisters have a tent here this year?"

"No, I don't think so. They're not listed in the program," Louise replied.

"And what are you doing bringing a Macdonald clansman to our tent, anyway?" Bruce asked, giving a mock growl.

"No wonder we give each other so much grief," Max teased. McAllister had a blank look on his face, so Max continued, "In the old days, Macdonalds and Campbells were like the Hatfields and the McCoys."

McAllister nodded.

"These days, McAlister has their own clan society, but they started out with Clan Donald. You could probably stop by their tent for more information," Bruce suggested.

"Maybe I will," McAllister said. "This is my first time at one of these things. I'm not quite sure what to expect."

"Oh, we have something for everyone. Clan tents for connecting with relatives and studying your heritage –"

"Not to mention a good place to stash your stuff," Max interrupted, "or rest your feet a minute."

"You're more than welcome to do that," Bruce assured him, "you and your friend, despite his birth defect. Not his fault he was born into the wrong clan."

McAllister stifled a chuckle.

"If you're of a scholarly turn of mind, the Heritage Tent has several lectures. There's music, there are the athletic competitions, dance competitions – my daughter's in that – shopping, food, and the tug-of-war." Bruce looked at Max. "You look young and strong. We could use you in the tug-of-war."

"Sure," Max agreed.

"Three or four pipe bands present this year; they'll be having a competition," Bruce continued. "Sheepdog demonstrations, whisky tasting, Highland cattle on display, and the contests, of course: bonniest knees, kilted mile, etc. We've got something for everyone. That table back there," he pointed to a food-laden table in the back of the tent, "is the common heritage of mankind. Help yourself to a snack while you look over the program. Of course," he looked at Max, "we can always use a few more volunteers at the clan tent."

Max shook his head. "Not this year. I'm playing tour guide."

"Fair enough. The tug-of-war is at noon, and lunch right afterwards. We'll expect you for both."

Max and McAllister retreated into the shade of the tent. They sat down in two empty folding chairs and examined the program.

"Two performance stages?" McAllister asked. "And a dance stage?"

Max grinned. "Music's an important part of these things."

"The Heritage Tent looks interesting." He read the list of lectures. "Boadicea, Grania O'Malley, Flora Macdonald, and other Great Women of Celtic History. Robert Burns' Bawdy Songs – over 18 only, please. The Clearances. The Loch Ness Monster, Fact or Fiction? Introduction to Gaelic. So You're Going to Wear the Kilt. The True Story of Macbeth." He looked at his student. "Where shall we start?"

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

Just then, Teri walked through the main gate. Monica materialized and came out to greet her.

"Teri, hi! Glad you decided to come after all." Monica held up her program. "Where are you going first?

"Thought I'd go hear some music."

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

Back at the Clan Campbell tent, an invisible Andrew whispered, "Music."

"Whatever you like," Max invited. "It's your first time."

"Shall we go hear some music then?"

All three angels smiled.

"Let me take another look at that map," Max said. "Okay, this way to the Main Stage." The pair rose and headed off to hear the fiddler.

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

"Music sounds great," Monica agreed, pleased at how easy this assignment was going to be.

Teri glanced at the map. "C'mon, this way to the East Stage. I love harp music, don't you?"

"Um, yes," Monica admitted honestly. She glanced at Tess for help.

Tess lost her smile. Maybe this would take a little longer than originally planned.

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

Frankie Sarducci looked around uneasily. He was a short, stocky man with olive skin and black hair. "What is that sound?"

"Bagpipes," replied Roger Cunningham succinctly.

Sarducci frowned as two men in kilts walked by. "Guys shouldn't wear skirts."

Cunningham chuckled. "It's called the kilt." His freckled face and curly red hair betrayed a Celtic heritage.

"You really think she'll be here?" Sarducci wouldn't have been here, at this strange place with oddly dressed men and screeching music, if Papa Salvatore hadn't insisted one of his enforcers accompany Cunningham to take care of loose ends.

"She'll be here," Cunningham replied confidently. "I know how she thinks. She'll feel safe in a crowd. And with a name like McAllister … she'll be here."

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

"I was born of Scottish parents, one day when I was young," the folk trio sang. "That's how the Scottish dialect became my native tongue."

Okasa ignored the musicians. He stood at the edge of the crowd, scanning the audience for a glimpse of McAllister or Max.

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

Teri watched the Highland dance competition. For ten-year-olds, the dancers were pretty good.

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

Sarducci saw Cunningham in the distance. He nodded once, to let him know he'd seen him, and hurried to join him. "Any sign of her?"

Cunningham shook his head. "Not yet."

"Maybe she ain't here," Sarducci suggested. He glanced at the athletic fields and swore. "What's he doing?"

Cunningham followed his gaze. "Caber toss."

"He's gonna pick up that telephone pole?"

Cunningham snorted. "Not just pick it up. He's going to throw it."

"Like at the carnival, when you hit the bell with the hammer to prove how strong you are?" asked Sarducci. Guys in skirts throwing tree trunks around: this place was too weird for him.

"The goal is accuracy, not brute strength," Cunningham explained with an annoyingly superior attitude. "He has to throw it end over end, and it needs to land as straight as possible."

Nearby, Max and McAllister were watching the hammer toss. Max couldn't help laughing when the athlete whirled around before tossing the heavy hammer, revealing loud Hawaiian shorts beneath his green Murray of Atholl kilt.

"The athletes don't 'go regimental'," a bystander explained. She was six or seven months pregnant, wearing a Boadicea T-shirt. "Too much chance of embarrassment."

"Regimental," McAllister repeated. "Is that what they call it when – "

She nodded. "The old army regiments issued kilts to the soldiers, but they didn't issue anything to wear under it. Or as the old joke goes, nothing's worn, everything works just fine." She patted her belly. "And I should know."

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

McAllister and Max stood on the north side of the path, watching as the parade marched by. First a color guard by the Scottish-American Military Society, then a pipe and drum band, then the various clans: Armstrong, Barclay, Buchanan, Cameron, Campbell. Each proudly held a banner with their clan name. Most carried a Scottish flag, either the blue St. Andrew's flag or the yellow banner with the red lion rampant. Some carried a banner made of their tartan, or a clan society flag; some carried the Stars and Stripes.

McAllister glanced behind him.

"Something wrong?" Max asked.

"Just felt like someone was watching me."

"Okasa?"

Andrew frowned.

"I haven't seen him. Like you said, it's unlikely he'd look for us here," McAllister said. Nonetheless, he looked over his shoulder again.

Across the parade, on the south side of the parade, Tess was frowning, too, but for a different reason. She stood beside Teri. The ex-model watched the clans go by: Donald, Douglas, Elliot, Fraser, Gordon, Graham, etc. Teri didn't even notice the old man standing across the path.

The clans continued marching: Lindsay, MacCallum, MacIntosh, MacKenzie, MacLeod, Murray, Sinclair, Stuart, Wallace. Teri smiled at a mother in a MacLeod kilted skirt pushing a stroller gaily decorated with yellow and black balloons. She didn't bother looking across the parade to the old man standing on the other side.

Two more pipe and drum bands followed the clans, and then the parade was over. Teri and McAllister both faded into the crowd, in opposite directions. Tess sighed. Something told her this assignment was going to be tougher than it had looked at first.

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

"Ah, when I was young, well, a pub was a pub,

With mahogany tables and a sawdust floor.

Nothing fancy, but plain enough –

They don't build pubs like that anymore.

And they're pulling 'em down, the old pubs,

Around the town, the old pubs," a bearded singer sang out.

In the audience, McAllister and Max sat, tapping their feet in time to the music. Teri stopped, listened for a few bars, and decided a song about urban renewal in Glasgow in the '60s – especially one about bars – wasn't that interesting. She wandered on to check out the shepherding demonstration. She liked dogs.

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

The clan conveners stood three feet apart from each other and issued ritual insults.

"We only keep you guys around to cook the hamburgers for the barbeque," Bruce Campbell sneered.

"We only buy the soup out of charity, to keep you off the dole queue," Richard MacDonald retorted.

"Them's fighting words!" both declared in unison.

Andrew and Tess watched as ten men grabbed the rope and readied themselves.

"Excuse me a minute," Andrew said. He walked over to a heavy-set, middle-aged man on the Clan Donald team. "Are you sure you want to do this, Tim?"

The man looked up at him. "Huh?"

"Are you sure you want to do this? Is there someone else who could take your place?" Andrew asked.

"Are we ready?" Richard MacDonald called out.

"No," Andrew shouted.

A woman with salt-and-pepper hair hurried up to the line. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

"I'm in the tug-of-war every year," Tim protested.

"You know what the doctor said," his wife reminded him.

"Don't nag, Karen. I'm perfectly capable –"

"Perfectly capable of having a second heart attack," Andrew interrupted. "Let someone else take your place on the tug-of-war team. Otherwise …."

Richard MacDonald came up to them. "Is there a problem?"

"No," Tim said, but Karen said "Yes" simultaneously.

"Did you know Tim McDaniel has a heart condition?" Andrew asked.

"What?" Richard turned to Tim. "Is that true?"

"Yes," Karen asserted.

"It's minor," Tim insisted.

"I'd rather lose the tug-of-war than lose you. Hang on a minute, Bruce," Richard yelled. "We need to make a team change. I need another volunteer." He looked Tim in the eye. "Sorry, Tim."

Andrew wandered back to Tess.

"Trying to avoid extra work?" she asked him.

He shrugged.

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

Okasa stood at the edge of the Heritage Tent. The Japanese man glanced inside.

"Men have been hung on less evidence than exists for the Loch Ness Monster," the speaker announced, a chubby woman whose red hair was beginning to go white. "Of course, that may say more about our judicial system than it does about Nessie."

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

"In the city of Chicago, as the evening shadows fall,

There are people dreaming of the hills of Donegal.

Eighteen forty-seven was the year it all began:

Deadly plagues of hunger drove a million from the land."

Andrew lost his smile as his listened to the song. He remembered the potato famine all too well; it had kept him much busier than he liked.

McAllister looked around the amphitheatre. He couldn't shake the feeling of someone looking over his shoulder. But there was no sign of Okasa, nor of any other sign of danger. All he saw was a young man in a black T-shirt. He gave the fellow a second look. A long, ovalish face and long blond hair, he was the man who'd caused the fuss at the tug-of-war. But he looked familiar beyond that. McAllister was reminded slightly of the bartender at the officer's club in Tokyo during the Korean War, but that man would be middle-aged by now.

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

Teri slipped into a port-a-potty. A moment later, Max approached the privies.

"Good," Tess approved. "We get these two together, then our job is half done."

Monica nodded in agreement.

Max headed for the port-a-potty that Teri was in and pulled open the door. "Oops! Sorry!" He quickly slammed the door shut.

"Oh, no," Monica said.

"Not your fault. The latch doesn't work," Teri called out.

Turning his back on the large blue rectangular booth, Max stood guard, so no one else could accidentally intrude on her.

Tess turned to Monica. "If that's your idea of a joke, we need to have a discussion about your sense of humor, young lady."

"I didn't do this," Monica protested her innocence.

A moment later the port-a-potty door started to open. Max hurried out of the way and into the next 'sanitary convenience.' Teri walked over to the portable sink.

"Hi, Monica," Teri greeted her co-worker as she washed her hands.

"That fellow who nearly walked in on you, he watched the door afterwards, so it wouldn't happen again," Monica told her.

"What do you know? A gentleman in this day and age," Teri replied.

"He was kind of cute," Monica pointed out. "Did you want to wait till he gets out, maybe say thank you?"

"No, I think it would just embarrass him." Teri shrugged. "It happened too quickly for him to see anything. I think he was more upset than I was. See you later." She walked out of the privy area and turned to the left.

Monica started to ask where she was going next. Before she could say anything, two little girls came up to the sink.

"How do you make the water come out?" one asked, looking for a handle but not finding it.

"Push down on the foot pump, honey," Tess told her.

Monica and Tess pressed the foot pump for the two little girls. Max came out of the port-a-potty and headed for the sink. He quickly washed his hands and turned to the right to rejoin his teacher. Monica looked around. Teri was already out of sight.

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_


	2. Blessings on your Frosty Pow

_Standard fanfic disclaimer that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters, I'm just borrowing them for, um, typing practice. That's it, typing practice. I'll return them to their actual owners (relatively) undamaged. This is an amateur work of fiction; no profit beyond pleasure was derived from the writing. __Originally published in Our Favorite Things #23  from Elan Press. A FanQ nominee for Best Crossover._

**Father's Day**

_Touched by an Angel/The Master_

Susan M. M.

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

"Burke and Hare were a terrible pair. Their deeds were beyond belief.

They worked underground in Edinburgh Town, the cruelest kind of thief."

Max turned his head to the music. "Hey, I know this one." He led the way toward the song, and McAllister followed. "It's a really cool song about graverobbers and murderers."

"Since when do murderers and graverobbers rate cool songs?" McAllister asked.

"In the old days, bards ranked second only to clan chiefs," Max told him. "Scots will make up songs about anything."

"William Burke dangled and jerked as the hangman ended his life,

And the final twist, the town anatomist cut him up with his surgeon's knife."

Max and McAllister found a group of ten people, sitting in a circle on the ground. A cardboard sign reading Ceildh Corner was tied to a tree. Everyone in the group joined in on the chorus.

The woman playing the guitar looked up. "Welcome to the Ceildh Corner." She pronounced it 'kay-lee'. "Care to join us?"

"Whatcha doing?" Max asked.

"Singing. Celebrating the Celtic spirit. Come on in, the water's fine."

"Ooh, that gives me an idea," a teenager said. He began singing Stan Rogers' 'Giant': "Cold wind in the harbor and rain on the road, wet promise of winter ….."

McAllister found himself reminded a _karaoke_, a new fad in Japan. The voices weren't professional, just ordinary people singing for the fun of it instead of listening to the performers on stage.

"My father's making Mary Mack marry me;

Mary Mack's father's making me marry Mary Mack.

I'm gonna marry Mary to get married and take care of me.

We'll all be making merry when I marry Mary Mack."

Monica quietly slipped in and found a place in the circle. She sang along merrily.

"Your turn," the guitarist told McAllister.

"My turn?"

"Pick, pass, or perform," she informed him. "You can pick a song for the group to sing, or ask someone to sing something, or you can pass, or you can perform."

"How about something by Burns?" McAllister asked.

The guitarist thought a minute. She smiled. "John Anderson, my jo, John," she sang, "when we were first acquent, your locks were like the raven, your bonnie brow was brent. But now your head is bald, John, your locks are like the snow, but blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo."

Max chuckled, considering the song appropriate.

When she finished, she turned to Max. "Your turn, now."

"Can I borrow your guitar?" he asked.

"Sure." She passed it over to him.

Max strummed a few chords, then began to sing. "She was in a flow'ry garden, when first she caught my eye, and I just a marching soldier. She smiled as I went by."

McAllister smiled as he listened. Max had neither the trained voice nor the ambition necessary for a professional singer, but his voice was good enough that Max had earned gas money once or twice by singing in coffeehouses.

"Let the time be short till I return to my home in the north of Skye,

And the loving girl who stole my heart with these words as I passed by:

Last night we spoke of love. Now we're forced to part.

You leave to the sound of a marching drum and the beat of a lover's heart."

Teri walked past the circle. She waved at Monica as she went by, but the angel was too busy listening to Max and singing along with the chorus to notice her.

"I leave to the sound of the marching drum and the beat of a broken heart."

Max handed the guitar back to its owner.

" 'Skye Boat Song'," the next fellow in the circle announced. The singers leafed through songbooks to find the right page.

"Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing. Onward, the sailors cry.

Carry the lad that is born to be king, over the seas to Skye."

McAllister glanced pointedly at his watch, then at Max. The younger man nodded, and they got up as quietly as possibly, so as not to disturb the song.

"Many's the lad fought on that day, well the claymore could wield,

When the night came, silently lay dead on Culloden's field.

"If you want to try that dance lesson, we need to be moving along," McAllister reminded him quietly.

"Burned are our homes, exile and death scatter the loyal men.

Yet ere the sword cool in the sheath, Charlie shall come again."

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

"Can I sing anything?" Monica asked when the choice came round to her.

"Your turn. Anything you like," the harper assured her.

"_Ar-nAthair a tha air néamh, gu naomhaichear d'ainm._

_ Thigeadh do ríochachd. Déanar do thoil air an talamh, mar a níthear air néamh._

_ Tabhair dhuinn an-diugh ar n-aran láitheil. _

_Agus maith dhuinn ar fiachan, amhail a mhaitheas sinne dar luchd-fiach._

_Agus na leig ann am buaireadh sinn; ach saor o olc;_

_Oir is leatsa an ríoghachd, agus an cumhachd, agus a' ghloir, gu síorraidh_." The angel's eyes glowed as she sang. When she finished, the entire circle sat in awed silence.

"That's lovely," someone said. "I know it was Gaelic, but what was it?"

"The Lord's Prayer," Monica replied.

Near the edge of the circle, Tess caught Monica's eye. The dark-haired angel rose and joined her supervisor.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" Tess asked.

"Max joined in the singing. I was hoping if Teri saw me, she'd join me, and then we'd get her and her father together," Monica explained.

"That'd be a nice plan … if it weren't for the fact that Max and John left two songs ago," Tess pointed out with unheavenly sharpness. "The music is very pretty, but we're not here just so you can have a good time, my girl."

"Even angels need a break sometime," Monica countered. "The way one zigs whilst the other zags, this has been one of our more frustrating assignments. If I were human, I'd be ready to tear my hair out."

"Honey, I'm about ready to toss myhalo on the ground," Tess agreed. " Never had so much trouble with getting two people together."

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

"You sure you don't want to try country dancing?" Max asked.

McAllister shook his head.

"Don't you even want to come watch me make a fool of myself?" Max asked.

McAllister smiled. "I can do that any time. How often can I get a free Gaelic lesson? I'll meet up with you afterwards by the vendors' tents. Maybe we can buy some souvenirs."

Max nodded his acquiescence, then headed off for the dance stage.

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

A middle-aged man sitting at the front of the Heritage Tent glanced at his watch. Then he glanced at the audience, apparently deciding he'd gotten as many people as he was going to get. He stood.

"_Feasgar math_. _Ciamar a tha sibh_? _Is mise Peadair Mac Dómhnull_." He spread his fingers in a Vulcan salute. "_Saoghal fada is soirbheas_."

His audience merely looked at him blankly.

"That's Gaelic for: Good afternoon. How are you? I'm Peter McDonald. Live long and prosper," he translated. "And if you're not here for Introduction to Gaelic, then you're in the wrong place."

"Could you repeat 'live long and prosper'?" asked a young woman. "Slowly?"

Peter McDonald smiled. "_Saoghal fada is soirbheas_. SOO-ull FAH-tuh iss SOR-uhv-us. Let's start with how to introduce ourselves." He touched his chest. "_Is mise Peadair Mac Dómhnull_." He pointed to McAllister. "_Dé an t-ainm a tha oirbh_?" Correctly guessing that the question meant 'what is your name?', he replied slowly "_Is mise_ John McAllister."

"_Glé mhath_. Very good. But in Gaelic, your name would be _Iain Mac Alasdair_." Peter turned to the woman next to McAllister. "_Dé an t-ainm a tha oirbh_?"

"_Is mise_ Heather MacPherson."

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

Max smiled a greeting at his partner. She was a brunette, perhaps five to ten years older than he was. She looked familiar, like he ought to know her, but he couldn't place her.

"Ladies, curtsy to your partners. Gentlemen, bow," the instructor said. She was a middle-aged woman wearing a kilted skirt in the yellow and black "loud McLeod" tartan.

Awkwardly, the volunteers obeyed.

"Take your partner's hand – right hand in right. Four steps forward, then kick with your outside foot. That's the right foot for the ladies, the left for the men," the instructor explained. "Now four steps back, and kick again. Four steps out, kick and clap your hands. Four steps in. Don't actually kick your partner – no violence – but bring your toes together."

The dancers followed her directions.

"All right, here's the part the courting couples like best. Take your partner's waist, sashay right two steps, now sashay left two steps. Polka in a circle. You all know how to polka, don't you?" the instructor asked as an afterthought.

The volunteers half-walked, half-danced their way through the practice session.

"_Glé mhath_!" the instructor complimented them in Gaelic. "Well done. Now let's do it properly." She turned on the tape recorder.

Slowly at first, the dancers worked their way through the steps. Then they began to relax, loosen up, and dance a bit more quickly. They only made a few missteps. When the dance ended, the gentlemen bowed, awkwardly, self-consciously, and the ladies dropped little half curtsies.

"Thank you for the dance." Max smiled at her. "My name's Max."

"Teri," she replied. "Teri Foster."

Max stared at her. Her hair was different, and she looked older than she did in her picture. Stress and strain had left her haggard and wan. "Is your maiden name McAllister?"

Teri turned white. She stepped away, ready to run. Max grabbed her arm and led her discreetly to the side of the stage. The last thing he wanted to do was attract attention. "I'm with your father. We've been looking for you for months."

Teri took a deep breath. "My father?"

"You are the woman who contacted John Peter McAllister in Japan, aren't you?"

She nodded, unable to speak.

Max reached out to take her hand, then thought better of the action and dropped his arm to his side. Teri was skittish; he didn't want to risk frightening her. "This way." He walked slowly, though he wanted to run, constantly glancing back to make sure she was following.

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

Tess watched invisibly as McAllister browsed through a vendor's tent. He slowly spun the rack. Having the ties in alphabetical order made it easier, but with all the Macs and Mcs, there were a lot of Ms to go through. He had just found the red McAlister tie when something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He looked up and saw Max waving at him in the distance. McAllister nodded to let Max know he'd seen him.

Max was grinning widely. A woman was beside him, a brunette in blue jeans and a pink blouse. McAllister smiled wryly. Leave it to Max to find a new girlfriend within hours of arriving at the Games. His student had a knack for finding two things: trouble and pretty women. All too often he managed to find both in the same package. Then he gave the woman a second look. There was something familiar about her.

The art of _ninjitsu_ consists of many disciplines: unarmed combat, exotic weaponry, acrobatics, stealth, disguise, etc. In his training, McAllister had learned not only how to disguise himself, but how to penetrate the disguises of others, seeing the true appearance beneath the façade. He stared at the woman as she and Max came closer.

His hand slipped off the tie, letting it fall back on the spinning rack as he stepped forward for a closer look. Despite his age, his vision was still excellent. The hair was a different shade of brown than in the photograph he had, but the cheekbones, the nose … those were the same. And the look on Max's face was neither infatuation nor lust. Triumphant was the only word to describe it – pure delighted triumph.

McAllister stepped out of the vendor's tent. He looked at Max and the woman, not wanting to hope, not daring to hope. But the closer they got, the better he could see her, and the doubts faded away.

"It's a miracle," he said softly as he walked forward to meet them.

"I was beginning to think it would take a miracle to get the two of you together," Tess muttered. She followed him, still invisible to mortal eyes.

When Max and Teri saw McAllister coming toward them, they picked up their pace. It took only a minute for the three of them to meet.

"I found her," Max announced. There was no need to explain who 'her' was.

For a moment, they just looked at each other. Max waited impatiently. He looked from one to the other. "Well, somebody say something," he urged.

McAllister had thought about this moment since he'd learned he had a daughter. All the words he'd planned slipped out of his mind. All he could do was gaze into her face. After a moment, he said, "You have your mother's eyes."

"Are you my father?" she asked, her voice quavering nervously.

McAllister took a deep breath. "If you're Laura Kennedy's daughter – and your eyes say you are – then I'm your father."

"Thank God," Teri breathed the words, more than speaking them aloud.

"Amen," Tess responded.

"Do you two want some privacy?" Max asked quietly. McAllister nodded. "I'll go hang out at the clan tent for a while. You can catch up with me there later."

McAllister smiled at him. "I have to. You have the car keys."

Once Max was out of earshot, Teri asked, "Is he my brother?"

"Not genetically, no." McAllister shook his head. "But he's like a son to me. He's been helping me look for you." He took a deep breath. "I've been looking for you since I got your letter. If I'd known about you, I would've looked years earlier." He reached out and took her hand. "I did try to find Laura after I escaped from the POW camp, but she'd disappeared completely. I couldn't find her, and no one knew where she'd gone."

"That was when I was on the way," Teri explained, blushing slightly. "Things were different then – there was more social stigma against unwed mothers back then. She moved to a town where no one knew her, bought a ring at a pawnshop, and passed herself off as a war widow."

McAllister nodded. Reluctantly, he released her hand. He wanted to hug her, but forced himself to wait for her to make the first move for an embrace. Her body language reminded him of a frightened wild animal, one that had been hurt and now dared not trust anyone.

"She found out about fifteen years ago that you were still alive, but at that point -" Teri shrugged. "She thought about trying to contact you, but it seemed better to let sleeping dogs lie. Dad and I – my stepfather," she corrected herself, "were having the usual teenage troubles at the time. Mom thought adding a 'real father' to the mix would just confuse the situation, and afterwards, well, the time never seemed right. Not until this mess with Roger."

McAllister saw she was close to tears. Glancing around, he saw an empty picnic table. He led her to it. Once they were seated, he said gently, "Your letter said you were in trouble. Tell me about it. How can I help?"

"It's Roger, my old manager. Roger Cunningham. He – he – I found out about something he was doing."

"Something he didn't want you to know about?" McAllister prompted. "Maybe something he didn't want the police to know about?"

Teri nodded. "I'm a model. At least, I was. Sometimes the other girls and I partied a little wild. Sometimes we – we needed something extra to keep us going."

"Drugs," McAllister guessed.

Teri nodded again. "Roger had connections. He could always get anyone anything they wanted. When I decided to go straight, get clean, he tried to talk me out of it. He told me I couldn't compete with the others if I didn't have that something extra."

McAllister snorted. "A pusher doesn't want to lose a customer."

"I thought that was all it was. But then – then –"

"Yes?"

"I found out he wasn't just supplying the girls. He was smuggling drugs, using overseas photo shoots as cover. Selling them wholesale when he got back to the States." She forced herself to take a deep breath. "As long as I was snorting cocaine, he didn't worry about the possibility of me finding out; he knew I wouldn't dare say anything. But after I went cold turkey –"

"You became a risk to him," McAllister finished her sentence for her.

"We were friends once, or at least I thought we were, but he tried to kill me." Teri's brown eyes were wide. Even after months on the run, it was still hard for her to believe it. She repeated softly, "He tried to kill me."

"I'm here now. I'll protect you," McAllister promised.

"How?" Teri looked at him and saw an old man: tall, still spry, but slender and white-haired. He didn't look like any sort of a threat, especially not against the likes of Roger Cunningham and his mob connections.

McAllister's cobalt blue eyes gleamed maliciously. "I'll keep you safe, even if I have to kill Roger myself."

Teri shuddered a second, somehow realizing he wasn't kidding.

"But I don't think it'll come to that," McAllister assured her. "Max's father is a lawyer; he'll help us if we ask him. And I learned a few tricks in Japan. I'll be able to handle Roger."

Teri took another deep breath. She tried to force herself to stay calm. "What did you do in Japan? All Mom could tell me was that you were a fighter pilot in WWII and Korea, and you lived in Japan."

"I stayed in Japan after the war. I like the country; I like the people and their way of life." He touched the ivory pendent he wore around his neck – a caged butterfly. "Some friends of mine gave this to me. They said it symbolized a Japanese soul trapped in an American body."

He looked at her carefully. He could see his nose, Laura's eyes, and cheekbones that reminded him slightly of his mother. He could also see how thin and pale she looked, and wondered when she'd last had a good meal. "All this talking is making me thirsty. Can I buy you a drink, maybe a snack?"

"Okay."

After he'd bought meat pies and 7Ups for both of them, McAllister continued, "After the war, I supported myself by teaching English while I studied the language, the culture, martial arts. Eventually, I taught martial arts. Just retired recently." It wasn't the whole truth, but it would do for now. "And you?"

Teri smiled shyly and gave a half-shrug. "It's a shame I'm not a writer. I've had the sort of mismatched jobs that writers always list in the back of the book as things they did before they quit their day jobs and started writing full time. File clerk, pastry chef, grocery store clerk, crop duster pilot. I'm working as a beautician at the moment. Modeling pays well, but it's not steady, and with Roger after me –" She exhaled. "I daren't go back to it."

"If it's what you want to do, don't let him stop you." McAllister reached out and took her hand.

She shook her head. "The glamour wore off a long time ago. Modeling was a good way to pay for airplane fuel. Flying is an expensive hobby. I could leave it behind without any tears." She shrugged. "Thirty years old, and I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up."

"Max is trying to 'find himself', too," McAllister told her. "I'll be happy to help you both look. But I think any future job for you should involve planes. Maybe you want to go back to crop dusting?" he suggested.

"Why?"

"Because when you talk about flying, you lose that frightened doe look." He smiled at her. "How's your mo- "

"What about –" Teri started to say at the same time. "Sorry."

"You first," McAllister invited. Although he wanted to hear about Laura, right now it was more important to get to know his daughter.

"What about your friend Max?" You said he was trying to find himself."

McAllister nodded. "He's a drifter. Until we teamed up, he'd get a job for a few weeks, earn gas money, then quit and move on."

"And now?" Teri asked.

"Now I pay for the gas." McAllister gave her a wry smile. "We made a trade. He helps me look for you – I'd say he more than held up his end of the deal. In return, I've been teaching him. He thinks I've been teaching him martial arts, but that's just the means to an end. I'm actually teaching him discipline."

"Does he need discipline so badly?" Teri raised one thin brown eyebrow.

"He did." McAllister chuckled. "When he leaves a bar now, he walks out the front door."

"So?"

"His standard way of leaving a bar used to be getting thrown out the window."

Teri suppressed a giggle. "You're kidding."

"I wish I were. But don't underestimate him. He plays two musical instruments, races motorcycles professionally, and is a sucker for damsels in distress." He glanced at her empty cup. "You ready to move on?" When she nodded, he continued, "Why don't we forget about Roger for a few hours and just enjoy the Games for a bit? I've never taken my daughter shopping before. I can't afford to make up for thirty missed birthdays at once, but we could at least go window shopping, maybe buy a souvenir or two."

"Okay."

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

They found Max at the Clan Campbell tent, drinking a Pepsi.

"We're going window shopping. Want to come with us?" McAllister invited.

"I don't need any windows," Max joked. "You sure I won't be in the way? I mean, two's company …."

McAllister lowered his voice. "We're both feeling so nervous and awkward, maybe a chaperone would be a good idea. Especially one as gregarious as you."

"Gregarious?" Max repeated, grinning. "I can't even spell the word."

"There's a lot of words you can't spell," McAllister teased. "C'mon."

They wandered from the Glen of the Clans past the main stage over to the vendors' area. T-shirts and tea towels, books and baubles, whisky flasks and Welsh love spoons, Teddy bears in kilt and sporran, music tapes, shortbread and _sgian dhu_s. From fifty cent buttons that declared 'Kiss me – I'm Irish' to two hundred dollar kilts made of eight yards of pleated wool, there was something for every budget and every taste. Max kept the conversation going as they wandered from one tent to the next, keeping the talk light and neutral.

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

Sarducci hurried up to Cunningham. "I found her."

"Where?" Cunningham demanded. His eyes were wide and bright.

"She's over by the tents selling stuff. Come on, I'll take you there." Sarducci eyed the redhead suspiciously, and wondered if he'd been snorting some of his own merchandise for 'Dutch courage.' Or in this case, Columbian courage. Papa Salvatore had ordered Sarducci to keep an eye on Cunningham, and make sure he didn't become a loose end himself.


	3. Angels and Assassins

_Standard fanfic disclaimer that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters, I'm just borrowing them for, um, typing practice. That's it, typing practice. I'll return them to their actual owners (relatively) undamaged. This is an amateur work of fiction; no profit beyond pleasure was derived from the writing. Originally published in Our Favorite Things #23  from Elan Press. A FanQ nominee for Best Crossover._

**Father's Day**

_Touched by an Angel/The Master_

Susan M. M.

_For Sheila Paulson, without whose encouragement this story would never have been completed._

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

Saturday, June 16, 1984

The angels materialized near the front entrance of the Highland Games, watching the people enter. All three were dressed in glowing white.

"Before we let people see us, we'd better blend in a little better," Tess suggested.

A second later, Andrew was in the kilt. The tartan was the Black Watch's regimental tartan; he'd known many members of the "Gallant Forty-Twa" over the years. His black T-shirt had a picture of the ancient church on Iona. Monica now wore blue jeans and a green T-shirt with a Celtic cross embroidered on it. Tess wore a straw hat, a T-shirt with the lyrics to 'Amazing Grace' printed on it, and a denim skirt. They waited, and a few minutes later Max and McAllister bought their tickets.

McAllister turned his head. He scanned the area, seeing nothing out of place. His body tensed automatically, every nerve, every muscle ready for combat. His gaze lingered where Tess, Andrew, and Monica stood invisible.

"Can he see us?" Monica whispered.

Andrew shook his head. "Not us. Me. A man who lives as close to death for as many years as he has can often sense the presence of an Angel of Death."

"Something the matter, oldtimer?" Max asked.

McAllister shook his head. "Just a feeling. What was it my grandmother used to say? Like a goose walked over my grave."

Max glanced at the program. "What do you want to do first? Go to the Glen of the Clans, or hit the vendors' area, or listen to the music, or watch the athletics, or what?"

One white eyebrow rose. "One thing at a time. Remember, I'm not as young as I used to be."

"Huh," Max scoffed. "You're in better shape than I am. Why don't we start at the Glen of the Clans? We can see if there are any other McAllisters here, and I can check in with my clan tent."

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

"Oh, how cute!" Teri stopped at a table with children's T-shirts. She picked up one with a picture of the Loch Ness Monster and the words 'I'm a wee monster.'

"You got kids, Teri?" Max asked.

"No, but it would be perfect for my nephew."

"How old?" Max picked up a shirt that said 'future bagpiper.'

"Two and a half." Her face fell. "I haven't seen him since his birthday. Th-that's why I've been on the run. I didn't want to risk Roger sending someone after my family."

McAllister realized with a pang that she must have half-brothers or –sisters. If he'd tried harder to find Laura after the Korean War, they might have been his kids.

Max set the shirt down and stepped away from the T-shirt table. He glanced pointedly at McAllister and Teri. They followed him. Max lowered his voice, "Not to be nosy, but who's Roger?"

Teri said nothing. McAllister looked at her, unwilling to explain without her permission.

"C'mon, we've been following you all over the country. I know you're in trouble. Don't I at least get to know what's going on?"

"By your standards, you've been remarkably patient," McAllister acknowledged. He turned to Teri, his blue eyes gazing down earnestly at her. "Do you mind if I tell him?"

She still said nothing.

"I think he'll be able to help," McAllister coaxed her. "You can trust him. I do."

Teri hesitated another second. "Roger has mob connections. He's been smuggling drugs. I found out about it."

"Have you gone to the police?" Max asked.

"I can't."

"Why not?" Her father's voice was gentle, not demanding, nor disapproving.

Teri blushed. "I told you we partied kind of wild. Sometimes there were important people at the parties. Sometimes Roger would ask us to 'be nice' to them." She took a deep breath. "Some of the people he asked us to be nice to, I think they were in the mob. And some were police. Pretty high ranking ones."

"Then you need to go to someone of equal or higher rank, but in a different division. Or better yet, in a different agency – county sheriff instead of city police, DA's office, state prosecutor, FBI. Bureaucracies breed rivalries," Max explained, "and those guys will be as eager to take down a rival as a crook. Give 'em a chance to do both at once, and they'll be bending over backwards to help you."

"What was it that friend of yours said? 'There are two types of cops – the ones that'll give you the shirt off their backs and the rogues'," McAllister quoted. "And the good ones hate the rogues."

"I only know the rogues," Teri confessed.

"Then we'll help you find the honest ones," Max told her.

"And keep you safe," McAllister promised.

Teri nodded. "Mom said you could handle danger better than anyone she ever knew. That's why when this mess started, she said the time had come to contact you."

"I'm flattered by Laura's vote of confidence. I just wish she'd written me earlier." He thought of the lost years that could never be regained: first smile, first steps, first day of kindergarten. He tried to picture Teri in a Girl Scout uniform, or gussied up for her first date, and mourned what he'd lost. "But Roger's not here, so today, at least, let's just enjoy the Games and get better acquainted."

Teri nodded, feeling calmer than she had in months. She honestly didn't feel safer – she couldn't imagine that an old man and a drifter who got into barroom brawls could be much protection, but at least she wasn't in this alone anymore. That was some comfort.

The conversation returned to neutral, non-consequential topics as they continued through the vendors' area.

Okasa bent his head over a cookbook, pretending to be engrossed in a recipe for potato scones. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the trio walked past. He waited a moment before following them.

Teri stopped at a tent labeled Metalwyrks. She fingered the earrings. Max glanced at the miscellany of merchandise: model soldiers, brass and pewter crosses, belt buckles, whisky flasks, pewter pendants on leather cords, weaponry replicas. McAllister divided his attention between the historical recreations of the claymores and dirks, and the earrings that Teri was examining. And just outside the tent, Andrew stood nearby, watching the three of them.

Another angel appeared. He was tall and handsome, with blond hair and cruel blue eyes. His thin lips pursed into a malicious half-smile.

Andrew frowned at the appearance of his counterpart from Below.

The fallen angel noticed both Andrew and his expression of distaste. "Hello, Andrew."

"Philippe," Andrew returned curtly.

Cunningham saw Teri, and found a hiding place behind a tree. He gestured to Sarducci to circle around, so they could flank Teri.

McAllister took a pewter thistle pendent and handed it to Teri. "This matches those earrings you're looking at."

Okasa saw McAllister standing next to Teri. He pulled a _shuriken_ from a hidden inner pocket and aimed at his former teacher.

Roger Cunningham drew his pistol and aimed at Teri. His bullet ricocheted on a brass Celtic cross and hit Okasa instead.

Instinctively, Okasa let his _shuriken_ fly in the direction of this new threat. The throwing star pierced Cunningham's neck, severing his jugular vein. Cunningham collapsed.

"Hello, Roger. We've been waiting for you," Philippe announced quietly.

The drug dealer's spirit rose from his body. He stared at Philippe in shock.

McAllister rushed to Okasa's side. He immediately began applying pressure to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

"Your efforts merely delay the inevitable, Master," Okasa whispered in Japanese. "Release me; let me die without the humiliation of capture."

In the same language, McAllister said, "No, it's not your time." He turned toward Andrew and Philippe, sensing the presence he couldn't see. "It's not his time." Then switching back to English, he called out to the crowd, "Get an ambulance!"

Okasa whispered, "Few _ninja_ die in bed of old age."

McAllister told him, "Maybe it's time to start a new trend. No more talking. Save your strength."

Teri stammered, "That's Roger – he's the one who –"

"The one who's been chasing you?" McAllister asked. She nodded. "Max, get Teri out of here. I'll take care of these two."

Frightened, Teri struggled for a semblance of normalcy, trying valiantly to contain her fear. "Where should we go?" She glanced down at the program in her hands. There was a map on the back. "Do you think it would be safe over by the athletics competitions?"

Max asked, "Is Roger likely to have accomplices?" Teri turned pale; Max saw the answer in her face. "In that case, let's go. The Ma- your dad can meet us at the motel."

Ignoring her half-hearted protests, he led her away.

The county sheriff's office was handling security at the Highland Games. It took only a moment for two deputies arrive. One took over first aid on Okasa whilst the other called for an ambulance on his walkie-talkie.

McAllister noticed Sarducci, his eye caught by the expression on his face. The rest of the crowd was shocked or openly curious. This stranger was frowning in disapproval. Then he noticed the bulge under Sarducci's jacket. McAllister slipped away from Okasa's side, moving more quietly and quickly than should have been possible for a man his age. A moment later, he was beside Sarducci.

"Excuse me," McAllister said softly.

Sarducci turned, startled. He hadn't heard anyone approach him.

"Maybe you can answer some questions about Roger Cunningham," the _ninja_ suggested. He placed his hand on the mob enforcer's shoulder.

At the sound of Cunningham's name, Sarducci tried to pull away, and was shocked to discover he couldn't. He began to struggle.

"Hey, officer!" McAllister called out. "This man has a gun!"

The crowd gasped, and one of the deputies hurried over.

McAllister now had one hand on Sarducci's right shoulder, the other on his left arm. Twisting his arm half-off, he frog-marched Sarducci to the waiting deputy. McAllister glanced at the deputy's name tag. "Deputy Zermeno, I don't know if he's involved with all this mess or not," McAllister lied, "but it seemed pretty suspicious to me when I noticed his gun."

Juan Zermeno looked down at the bulge. "Carrying concealed weapons. You'd best come with me."

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

Max and Teri sat on the bed, playing cards half-heartedly.

"Got any threes?" Max asked.

Teri shook her head. "Go fish." She looked at her own cards. "Got any –"

Max jumped off the bed, reacting to a sound outside the motel room she hadn't heard. He rushed to the door. One hand reached into his pocket for a _shuriken_.

"It's me," a familiar voice said as he knocked on the door.

Max breathed a sigh of relief. He unlocked the chain. "Everything okay?"

McAllister nodded.

Teri looked up, fear in her brown eyes. "Roger?"

"He's dead. And his accomplice was arrested."

"Accomplice?" Teri asked. "Who?"

"When I left the sheriff's station, the computer was still going through an assortment of aliases. Seems he had a whole mess of outstanding warrants." McAllister glanced at the pizza box on the dresser. "I hope you saved some of that for me."

Max nodded. He went to the bathroom for a clean paper cup, then got what was left of the soda pop out of the mini-refrigerator. As he handed the drink to the Master, he whispered, "And Okasa?"

McAllister threw a shopping bag on the bed and gratefully accepted the drink. "The man Roger shot by accident is in the hospital. His condition is serious, but he should survive." Sapphire eyes gazed earnestly at Teri. "You're safe."

She closed her eyes, unable to believe it was finally over.

"We had to leave the Games early. I didn't know if you'd want to go back for the second day, or if what happened today would put you off Highland Games for the rest of your life." McAllister took another sip of Coca-Cola.

"I really hadn't thought about it," Teri confessed.

"I picked up something for you two, just in case we went back tomorrow." McAllister reached into the bag and took out two items. He handed a red tartan sash to Teri, then gave a tie in the same tartan to Max. "They tell me it's traditional at the Kirkin' of the Tartans to wear a bit of your family's pattern."

"Wrong tartan, old man. Mine's Campbell of Breadalbane."

McAllister touched his ivory pendent, the symbol of his identity as a _ninja._ Okasa's grandmother had given it to him the day Okasa's grandfather had declared him a true _ninja._ "You're a member of my clan. I think for one day you can get away with wearing my tartan."

Max knew what the medallion was, and what it meant. "_Domo arigato_."

"Thank you," Teri echoed Max's words, only in English. She rose from the bed and for the first time in her life, gave her father a hug.

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

Sunday, June 17, 1984

McAllister sat in the dark, a brown paper bag in his lap. He watched Okasa breathe softly in and out.

"It's 3:00 AM," a woman's voice said behind him. "Visiting hours were over a long time ago."

McAllister turned his head to see an African-American nurse standing just inside the doorway. One white eyebrow rose; he hadn't heard the door open.

"What are you doing here at this hour? You ought to be in bed," Tess scolded.

"I didn't want him to wake up alone in a strange place," McAllister confessed. He thought, trying to find a way to discreetly explain his fears. "He's had combat training. I didn't want him to maim you or one of the other nurses before he realized where he was."

"At the moment, he's not in condition to hurt anybody," Tess pointed out.

"You'd be surprised what he's capable of."

"At my age, in this job, very little surprises me any more, John."

McAllister looked up at her sharply. How had she known his name?

"I am curious, though," she confessed. "Why so much concern for a man who's tried to kill you more than once?"

It took all of McAllister's self-control to keep from staring up at her, wide-eyed and gaping. There was no way she could have known that. He tried to protest, to ask what she meant, and to his shock and dismay, he found he could not lie to her. He'd never had trouble lying to an attractive woman before. After a long pause, he said, "He's not doing it out of malice. He's not an evil man."

She snorted. "He kills for pay, and he's not an evil man? I'd like to hear your definition of evil, then."

"He's not trying to kill me because he's being paid to, or because he wants to," McAllister clarified, although he knew Okasa had killed others for pay. "It's a matter of honor. He thinks he's obliged to kill me, so he has to try, whether he wants to or not."

"Is he obliged to kill you?" Tess asked pointedly.

McAllister shook his head.

"You've killed yourself, and not just in wartime," Tess reminded him. "But let's get back to him. "It honestly doesn't bother you that he keeps trying to kill you?"

"Well, it is a trifle inconvenient," McAllister admitted wryly.

Tess chuckled, a rich, warm laugh. "But you don't hate him for trying?"

"How could I hate him? I changed his diapers when he was little. I taught him English, helped him with his times tables, practiced karate and judo with him." He looked up at her. "How can I hate somebody I read _Treasure Island_ to?"

"Sharing Jim Hawkins and Long John Silver does create a bond," Tess admitted. "You know, there's Somebody Who loves you even more than you love Okasa, Somebody you haven't paid much attention to lately."

Her white uniform seemed to gleam even brighter. McAllister told himself it must be his old eyes, playing tricks on him.

"You read the Bible?"

"Not recently," McAllister admitted.

"Do you remember the story of the Prodigal Son?"

"Of course." McAllister hadn't been to church in years, except for the occasional wedding, but he'd been dragged to Sunday school and church as a child.

"His father loved him, despite everything he'd done. You have a Father, too, who loves you, and all He wants is for you to love Him back," Tess told him.

McAllister shook his head. "I'm not exactly the sort of person God takes an interest in."

"You're wrong, John. God takes an interest in everyone."

"I have things in my past, things that I'm not exactly proud of," he confessed softly.

"You were a _ninja," _Tess said bluntly. "You were a _ninja,_ and you killed people. Maybe you were more particular about your targets than he is," she gestured at Okasa with her chin, "but you took it upon yourself to decide if they lived or died."

McAllister said nothing.

"But you don't do that anymore. Remember what you and Okasa said when you spared his life? 'Kill me, as you have always killed your enemies,' and you said, 'Never again.'" He stared up at her in disbelief, but she continued, "Do you know what the Talmud is?"

The change of subject startled McAllister. "Uh, it's a Jewish book. Some sort of scripture."

"Close enough," Tess acknowledged. It was actually a collection of Jewish law, both civil and religious, and scholarly comment on those laws. "The Talmud says, One must not say to a man who has repented (and changed his way of life), 'Remember your former deeds'." She looked him in the eye. "Since you retired from being a _ninja_, a lot of good things have happened to you, haven't they? You met Max. You found Teri."

"Yes, I've been very lucky," McAllister acknowledged.

"No, you've been blessed," the angel corrected him, "and it would be good manners to say thank You."

McAllister tried to think of some fit reply to that rebuke. He failed. Okasa stirred. He looked down at him. When he looked up again, Tess was gone.

McAllister sat and said nothing for several minutes. Then playing a hunch, he checked the drawer of the bedside table. Just as in a hotel, the Gideon Society had left a Bible there. Although he hadn't read the Good Book in years, he still remembered roughly what was where. It took him only a few minutes to find what he was looking for, and scribble it down.

He placed the Bible back on top of the table. The sound woke Okasa.

He blinked, wondering if he were dreaming. "Master?"

"You feeling up to visitors?" the old man asked in Japanese.

"No," Okasa replied in the same language, with more honesty than tact.

"I won't stay long," McAllister promised him. He held up a brown paper bag for his former student to see, then put it on the bedside table. "I brought you some clothes. I know you won't wait until the doctor is ready to discharge you, and I didn't think you'd want to sneak out wearing a hospital gown." He looked at Okasa. "Be careful when you leave. Give yourself time to heal."

"Before I come after you again, you mean," Okasa retorted. His voice was so weak it was hard to take the threat seriously.

"My son."

Okasa looked up at him, surprised at the endearment.

"My son, I could never hurt you. I love you. And you don't want to hurt me."

Okasa opened his mouth to protest.

"If you did, I'd be dead already," McAllister pointed out.

Okasa had no answer for that. McAllister was the only target he'd ever gone after whom he had not killed.

"Where does your honor lie? In killing an old man to prevent him from betraying secrets I have no intention of betraying? Or in respecting the many years we have shared, and the affection – the love – we once knew?" McAllister took a deep breath. "Do you really want to deny that love?"

There was a long pause. Okasa was unable, or perhaps unwilling, to refute his master's question. Finally he asked, "What of Keller? You share our secrets with him."

"As your grandfather and father shared your secrets with me. I am a teacher; I must teach." McAllister thought of the Gaelic class he'd attended yesterday. In Gaelic, one did not say 'I am a teacher,' but 'It is a teacher in me.' The old man continued, "I have no intention of going on a talk show and revealing who we are and how we do what we do, or writing a tell-all book. But when I find a student, especially one with talent, I can no more refuse to teach him than a stableman can refuse to train an unbroken colt with the potential to become a champion race horse."

Okasa was too tired from his wound to argue, and his brain too befuddled by drugs, to think of a properly biting reply. At least, that was the reason he gave himself for not disputing McAllister.

"I also came to thank you," McAllister continued. "I am in your debt."

One black eyebrow rose.

"You killed the man who threatened my daughter. I swore never to kill again, but I was prepared to break that promise to protect Teri. You preserved my honor by preventing me from becoming an oathbreaker." He stood and bowed deeply. "You must do as you think best. But I will not harm you." He bowed again, less deeply, and slipped out of the hospital room.

Okasa waited a moment before reaching over for the bag McAllister had left. It contained a box of shortbread, a blue business suit, a white shirt, underwear, socks, and a red plaid tie. Okasa picked up the tie and examined it. The label read Clan McAlister. He ignored the snippet of clan information, that the alternate spellings were McAllister, MacAllester, etc., or that the clan was descended from Alasdair Mor, son of on the label, in McAllister's handwriting, was a cryptic inscription: Lk 3:22b

It took him a moment to place the abbreviation. He reached for the Bible that McAllister had left on the bedside table.

"Thou art My beloved son, in Thee I am well pleased," Okasa read aloud. Exhausted, he let the Bible slip from his fingers and fall to the floor. But he did not fall back asleep for quite some time.

_**TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *****_

Max, Teri, and McAllister found seats on a bench near the front. Max and McAllister wore sports coats and tartan ties. Teri had on a blue sundress, with her tartan sash draped over her right shoulder.

"In all the time we've been hanging around together, old man, I think it's the first time we've been to church," Max said.

"Won't do us any harm," McAllister predicted. "Might even think of making it a habit." He thought of the nurse, and wondered who – or what – she was.

A lone piper stood at the edge of the amphitheatre. Softly at first, then with more volume, he began playing 'Amazing Grace.'

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me,

I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see."

Teri looked over where the soloist stood, on the opposite side of the amphitheatre from the piper. It sounded almost like her co-worker, Monica. However, the sun was in her eyes, and all she could see was that the singer was a woman in a long white gown.

Rev. MacKay looked up, too, then glanced down at his program. No one had told him that a soloist had been arranged to accompany the traditional lone piper. A moment later the Los Angeles Police Pipe Band began playing 'Amazing Grace,' too. Amazingly, the soloist could still be heard over all the pipers and drummers.

The procession into the amphitheatre began. First a Scottish-American Military Society color guard, proudly carrying four flags. Then Rev. MacKay, followed by the LA Police Pipe Band, and then a representative from each of the clans present at the Games. The crowd stood up as the flag approached. The minister and the color guard mounted the stage. The six veterans, each wearing a khaki SAMS shirt, but kilts in their own family's tartans, posted the colors, inserting the United States flag, the Scottish flag, the California state flag, and the black POW/MIA flag into waiting flag stands. The two men on either end of the color guard solemnly saluted, presenting arms with military precision. Only then did the clan representatives place their tartan banners into the waiting flag stands in front of the stage.

"Please be seated," Rev. MacKay spoke into the microphone. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I'd like to thank you for coming this morning, especially those of you who were up until the wee hours of the morning, at the _ceildh_ or the whisky tasting."

The congregation laughed.

"My name is Alan MacKay, and I am the pastor of St. Margaret's Presbyterian Church here in San Miguel. I'm very flattered to have been asked to officiate at this year's Kirkin' of the Tartans. The Good Book says 'make a joyful noise unto the Lord. Come into His presence with singing and gladness.' Therefore, let us begin our worship service by singing 'Faith of our Fathers.' You'll find the words in your program."

"Faith of our fathers, living still, in spite of dungeon, fire, and sword." Neither Max nor McAllister were familiar with the hymn, but both had rich, strong singing voices. "O how our hearts beat high with the joy, whene'er we hear that glorious word_. _Faith of our fathers, holy faith, we will be true to Thee till death."

"Praise the Lord! For it is good to sing praises to our God, for He is gracious, and a song of praise is seemly," Rev. MacKay quoted when the song had ended. "For our Old Testament reading, please turn to your pew Bibles - sorry, force of habit," he corrected himself. "For the Old Testament reading today, I will be reading Exodus, Chapter 20, verses 1 to 17." And he read aloud the Ten Commandments.

"Let me repeat Exodus 20:12: 'Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee'." MacKay looked out at the congregation. "Today is Father's Day, a day on which we honor our fathers, our grandfathers, and the men who have been like fathers to us – uncles, teachers, mentors. And this is the Kirkin' of the Tartans, when we honor the heritage of our forefathers …and our foremothers," he added. "I would like to honor all the fathers present today. Would all the fathers stand up, please?"

One by one, the majority of the men in the congregation stood. After a second's hesitation, McAllister stood, too. He smiled at Teri as she and Max joined in the applause to recognize and celebrate the fathers.

MacKay gestured for the fathers to sit down. "There are those who say that the Kirkin' of the Tartans is an ancient custom, going back to 1746, when the British government forbid the wearing of the kilt and the playing of the bagpipes. That when the pastor was saying prayers in the kirk, at a set signal the congregation would touch a hidden bit of tartan cloth, and the pastor would sneak a blessing past the English. And there are those who say that it is a modern custom, that it only began this century as a mark of ethnic pride. Whatever the truth, we honor now our clans, our ancestors, and our proud heritage."

Rev. MacKay nodded to the clan representatives sitting in the first row. They rose in unison, and approached the tartan banners. One after another, from Armstrong to Wallace, they announced their names, held the banners high and waved them, then set them back in the flag stands.

"Please do not think that if your clan is not represented here, then you are left out. Just as the song says 'wherever two or three are gathered in His name, there is love,' then wherever clansmen gather, that clan is there. You are included in these prayers." Rev. MacKay bowed his head. "Lord, we ask Your blessing on these tartans and on what they represent: our families, our pride in our heritage, and our hopes for our posterity. Help us to remember all that is good and noble in that heritage, to live up to the example of our forefathers, and help us to avoid that pride becoming overweening. 'Blessed is the nation whose God is the Lord; and the people whom He hath chosen for His own inheritance.'Amen." He looked at the congregation. "If there's one thing the Scots have in common with the Children of Israel, it's that we are 'a stiff-necked people.' Pride in our heritage is one thing, but excessive pride is a sin."

He nodded to the clan representatives, and they resumed their seats.

"We are not here to remember the fights between Macdonald and Campbell, or between Murray and Hanna, or between MacGregor and anyone who had cattle." MacKay paused as the congregation chuckled. "We are here to celebrate our brotherhood as Scots, and our brotherhood as children of the Lord. Please rise and sing 'Children of the Heavenly Father.' Again, you'll find the words in your program."

"Children of the Heavenly Father, safely in His bosom gather …."

When the last notes of the hymn faded away, MacKay stepped up to the pulpit again. "I think most of you are familiar with the New Testament reading today. Please join in, in whatever version you are most familiar with. Matthew, Chapter 6, verses 9 through 13. 'Pray then like this: Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name."

Almost the entire congregation recited along with him. "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever, amen." Some said debts instead of trespasses, some said Your instead of Thy, but nearly everyone recited the prayer…even McAllister, who hadn't said it in decades, and was surprised that he still remembered it.

MacKay took a deep breath and looked out at the congregation. "When I was in seminary, I was told that the wording that Christ used in that prayer shocked His followers. That what we translate today as 'our father' was closer to Daddy or Papa in Aramaic, and considered horribly disrespectful. But would we not all have happier, closer relationships with the Lord, if we looked upon Him not as a distant father-figure up in the clouds somewhere, but as a loving daddy? Someone close to us, close to our hearts? God loves us, just as all the fathers we honored here today love their children. And all He wants is for us to love Him, and to love our fellow man as our brother."

McAllister glanced up. That was almost word for word what the nurse had told him a few hours ago.

" 'Blessed is the nation whose God is the Lord; and the people whom He hath chosen for His own inheritance.'We here have been truly blessed. Although summer doesn't officially start until Thursday, we have a beautiful sunny, summery day. We are in the United States of America, the freest country in the world, blessed with rights and privileges that citizens of some countries can't even begin to dream of." He sighed. "Second time I've ended a sentence with a preposition this morning. Mrs. MacKay is an English teacher; I'm going to catch it when I get home."

The congregation chuckled.

"We come from different churches: Presbyterian and Episcopalian, Methodist and Baptist, Roman Catholic and Lutheran, and many others. But we are gathered together here in this non-denominational service because the United States constitution grants us the freedom of worship, and that is a blessing for which we can thank the Founding Fathers. Both the Declaration of Independence and the constitution were influenced by the Declaration of Arbroath, written in 1320, so we can be thankful that the Founding Fathers knew their Scottish history. And we are lucky enough to have been born Scottish, or Scottish-Americans, to have a heritage that celebrates freedom, learning, and the love of the Lord. We have a lot to be thankful for." MacKay shook his head. "Three prepositions. Mrs. MacKay is really going to let me have it this afternoon."

McAllister glanced from Teri to Max, and realized he had much to be thankful for: the safe rescue of Teri, the companionship of Max, knowing that Okasa would live. His daughter, his heart-sons. "I've been blessed," he realized. He spread his arms out, enveloping his daughter and his student in a hug. "Truly blessed," he whispered.

On the hill overlooking the amphitheatre, three angels looked down at the _ninja_. "Our job here is done," Tess announced.

The angels disappeared. Three white doves settled in the tree, and listened to the rest of the sermon.

The End

**Author's Note: ** The (fictional) San Miguel Highland Games are based on six or seven Highland Games I've attended in three different states... except for the Ceilidh Corner. That's just a filksing with a brogue. Many thanks to the musicians whose albums I listened to whilst I was writing this story, some of whose songs are quoted here: Alex Beaton, the Boatrights, Ed Miller, Wild Oats, the Browne Sisters and George Cavanaugh, Windbourne, Andy Stewart, Men of Worth, Golden Bough, Will Tell, Robin Laing, Cara-Anne and the Minstrels, the Border Collies, etc., etc., etc. Double thanks to Donnie Macdonald for the Gaelic translation of the Lord's Prayer and to Kim Victoria for the translation of 'live long and prosper.' And _tapadh leibh _to the readers who nominated this story for a FanQ Award, and cast their votes so I came in second. And _tapadh leibh_ to you for reading this on-line.


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